The Reindeer Keeper

I wore the same black gloves every day this past winter. I'd found them in the grocery store in the frozen food aisle. They held up pretty good for being cheap and considering I used them to scrape snow and ice off my car windows. But in the last few weeks the tips of my fingers have pushed through the ends of my gloves; making them look more like those things that golfers wear. I know it's pretty sad but I refuse to go buy a new pair. It's the principle of the thing. By the calendar, it is spring so soon I won't be needing them. Right! Today I had the bright idea I'd sew the ends with tiny, black stitches just like my grandmother would darn socks. When I think about it, my grandmother-and those of her generation-never threw anything out just because it had a hole or it was ripped. Nothing was tossed. Everything was given a 2nd or 3rd life. Needle and thread would be pulled out of her sewing basket. When she found a spare moment she'd mend the holes in the...

Pets make their way into our hearts and a family's legacy. They mark an era; bring tears and laughter and make great stories when remembered. Growing up in the country we were blessed with many little friends. Some were given names while some remained generic like "that" chicken or "the" pig. There was Pepper-a small kind of a dog hanging around the farmhouse when we were little. He was short with a long sort of a nose. He probably had been named Pepper because he had black and white fur with a tinge of butterscotch-an odd pepperish mix. There were two particular horses I remember hearing stories about when sitting around the kitchen table; remember being told which stalls had been their's but I can't recall their names. One might have been Molly. No particular barn cats come to mind although there must have been a few of them. After all there was a barn with haylofts and nooks and crannies. Barns are full of mice. Nearby stood a small grain shed whi...

When I was young and my grandparents were living in the farmhouse a favorite room of mine was one of the front parlors-especially when winter's grasp was harsh and gray days prevailed. I'd stand by the window looking out towards the barn in awe of my grandmother's geraniums in full bloom sitting in front of me soaking up what sunlight there was coming in from the cold. The contrast was stark. Outside everything was frozen in place. Inside those plants with their big, happy, green leaves and big, happy, red flowers weren't stopping to wait for the heat of summer. They didn't seem to care. They made no distinction between the seasons. They were getting what they needed and letting you see how content they were in that window-all thanks to my grandmother's green thumb. She cared for her plants like she did her cooking-smidgens of this and that done naturally and with lightening speed and with great results. There was no down time for this woman who juggled her ma...

Nope. No basketball hoops growing up in the country. No snowmobiles or 4-wheelers back then either. I dare say if we had stuff like that we probably wouldn't have bothered with any of it for we had our own versions of what we considered fun-know today as recreational playtime. Any hint of spring would find us outside in the mud; making snowballs that would soak our mittens and marching through puddles that would flood our boots. Once the stream that meandered its way between the farmhouse and our clubhouse began to wake up, we'd help it along with shovels and picks and whatever else we could find in the shed. It came through a tunnel built underneath the road; run-off from a field that stretched way back to the pine grove. If you bent over and yelled your loudest into the tunnel, it would echo out the other side. Sometimes we'd throw stones into the tunnel to see who could throw the farthest. We had lots of fun with that tunnel. It became whatever we wanted it to be. On...

Books mark stages of our lives. They become more than words on pages forming sentences. They become good friends and when thought of, bring back memories of being swept away while sitting quietly turning pages. I can still see my grandfather in his chair by the window in the front parlor of the old farmhouse in the early evening. After a full day's work, he'd sit and read. He loved Zane Grey westerns; devoured Saturday Evening Posts cover to cover. We'd play all around him but I don't think he ever noticed. He was being swept away. I still remember going with my mother to a small bookstore in our downtown when we had a downtown. She loved fiction; mostly of the South when sprawling plantations were still sprawling and the women dressed like Scarlett O'Hara and all the men were Rhett Butlers. My mother worked as head nurse, evening shift in the ER. When she got home-before going to bed, she'd read. She'd sit near the window in the side room that bordered ...